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We’re leaning against each other, his arm across my back, mine across his. Blood oozes from his nose and I can’t help but laugh more. This just encourages him to laugh along until it’s a cacophony of two. I press into his back as I stand straight. I can feel his vertebrae pulse.
“You throw a decent punch for someone who’s never fought before,” I tell him, patting his back as he rises up.
“You throw a decent punch for someone who’s claims to have never fought before,” he tells me. A knowing smile tugs at his mouth.
“If I was honest, you would have ran away,” I say to him, reflecting a smile.
“I wanted a reason to touch you,” I don’t say to him. I can hear him thinking.
“You barely know me at all,” he huffs, glancing at his blood on the pavement; the only proof we fought moments before. Until we bruise.
“You’re right,” I inform him, pushing him along with me to the curb. “You wouldn’t run away,” I clarify, “you would fast walk, trip, and eat shit,” I smile to him confidently. It’s a shot in the dark, but look at him. Sleep deprived, disheveled, poor posture, eyes the weight of cinder blocks; that’s exactly what would happen. Yet it all the more enraptures me.
I sit the moment we get to the curb, immediately taking out the bottle I swiped from the bar and my cigarettes. I can feel him looking as I take my time getting comfortable, adjusting to the pavement. I do my best playing ignorant, but I wonder what he’s thinking. If he knows.
“Like what you see?” I ask him eventually, looking up. He looks scared, caught in the act. He holds eye contact as I relish in the attention, pride consuming me realizing he is embarrassed and I need to know why. He looks away with an artificial puff of a laugh, that sick desperation coming back. I realize I’ve just been staring so I drag my eyes away, settling on garbage across the way at eye level.
I offer the bottle to him, bringing my knuckles to drag the back of his hand. I play it off, using only my peripheral to watch him.There’s a twitch and he turns, but I don’t pull my hand away, instead wiping my split knuckles side to side across his metacarpals.
“Take it,” I tell him, feeling him looking as I zone ahead at the garbage. I can feel his fingers chafe against mine as he takes the bottle by the neck from me. I smile a bit to myself, as privately as I can, this tipsy, knowing he could have grabbed the bottle from anywhere and chose from where I was holding. He wanted to touch me.
I mess with the top of my pack of cigarettes, spinning the lighter, and look up at him. I look at the hair I’ve messed up, wanting to do it all over again. I look at his loose tie, the bags under the eyes that stare holes into his own hand. My eyes follow and I see his hand suspended in the air, the back of it glistening under the street light. Must have been the residue from my torn knuckles. The hand we’re staring at finally brings the bottle to his lips as he sits next to me. I hunch, lighting a cigarette, sitting back in silence with him. I swear he’s intentionally trying to drink the same time I take a drag. Maybe we were naturally meant to be in unison. Insync before ever knowing each other.
“We should do this again sometime,” He breaks our peace. I look down at my cigarette laughing a bit at him. We should. The silence returned and I think about his apartment. I wonder when I should tell him. If I should. I was able to get him to ask for a place to stay, I’d never ask him myself. There he was, this paper bag of a man willing to move in with someone he barely knows. I can’t fuck this. So I try something.
“I want you to do another favor for me,” I say, pulling out another cigarette. He turns obediently, as if he’s waiting for direction. As if he’s never known life without instructions.
“I want you to have a cigarette with me,” I explain, trying to slyly put the lighter back without him knowing. If he’s conscious enough to pick up on me to begin with. He sits politely as I place the cigarette between his jaws, hoping he doesn’t notice me shake. I tell myself it’s from the alcohol, but I still know it’s him. I can’t deny him. He looks at me, words at the end of his tongue, until I hold his face in both my hands; my palms against his cheeks, my fingertips reaching behind his ears.
I inhale, exhale, studying the burning end of my cigarette, bringing my hand to guide him by his chin. I steady the cigarette in his mouth against mine and inhale long and sharp. My hand goes back to the side of his face and I try to pull him in just a bit closer. I look up at him and he looks back at me , petrified. I notice he isn’t inhaling, the cigarette struggling to light. Engulfed once again by pride realizing he may really feel the same, with his poorly hidden displays of desire and interest. The interest isn’t entirely hidden, really, with how intently he has listened to everything I’ve said. From emergency exits to Martha Stewart he looks towards me like I’m all he’s ever heard. He’s sitting stiff as a board because of me. I can’t help but smile to myself as I remove my hands to lean back, smoking as if nothing happened. I swear I heard him gasp.
That gasp was the inexperienced inhale I’ve been waiting for. Followed by the coughing I was expecting. The hacking, not so much, causing me to burst into laughter
“There, there,” I’m struggling to say between barks of laughter, patting his back and expecting a lung to come up. “You’ll get the hang of it,” I try to support. We sit there, him on the verge of throwing up and me patting dents into his back, until he’s calmed down. A couple terse coughs sneak out as he launches the empty bottle across the parking lot. He starts to laugh with me, with less desperation this time.
So I’m taking him home. I’m taking this clever guy I met on a plane, who sought me out after the loss of every contemporary comfort he’s never needed; I’m taking him home. I’ve hooked him, convinced him, I can change him. I can ruin his life, if he’ll let me. He can ruin mine. My life I’ve meticulously created to spite the modern world; I’d let him convince me that name brand is worth the investment. He can try.
I can hear him thinking again as we ascend the porch. I shove into the partially hinged door, guiding him in, and watch as his barely open eyes scan my house. Now to be shared. His new home and here he is looking ready to cry, the grave marker to his life of tedious comfort. I go straight for the fridge, grabbing us a bottle each and sliding one down to him, climbing up the counter. Our kitchen’s only light source is coming from the chandelier in the next room. Our kitchen.
“When do you go to bed?” I ask him, wondering how much time we have until he passes out. Likely any minute I assume, as he sways with a swig.
“I don’t” he replies, making me laugh. He’s pretty good at making me laugh, I’m noticing, hoping he’ll do it again.
“I would’ve assumed from your eyes, but I wouldn’t expect it to be true,” I chuckle, sliding off the counter, magnetized.
“What’s wrong with my eyes?” he states, deadpan, unable to even be self conscious. As if he’s known this about himself his whole life.
“Nothing’s wrong with them,” I breathe out, calming from my outburst looking back at him. I bring a hand back to his face again, caressing the bags under his eyes, and he lets me. How could he say no? If I were to make a move, how could he say no? He has let me hit him, pat him, hold him, graze him; he’s already followed me this far. How could he say no?
“I would’ve never guessed you’d be a touchy drunk,” he whispers out. He’s nervous; it’s suffocating the room.
“I’m normally not,” I tell him, my empty hand by my side coming up to cup his face. I want to tear him apart, see what lies inside the man in front of me that I so desperately need to change, to help. The man I can’t keep from touching. Instead, I trace his under eyes, feeling my eyebrows furrow as I calculate. Think. I’m not lying, I’m really not a touchy drunk. There is something so foreign about him that’s drawn me in. He hasn't lived in his entire life and here he is rigid in our kitchen under my touch. Our kitchen. I can’t get that off my mind.
“What makes tonight the exception?” He asks, placing his hands on my side. I can’t help but sigh; how could he say no?
“I’m sure you can figure this out. Being clever’s been working out for you, so far, right?” I ask, inches from his face. I’d never ask him to move in and he’d never be the one to lean in first. So I lean in. I watch his eyes bulge, his jaw grind, and his mouth twitch until I close my eyes. I feel his hands in my pockets and for a moment I think he’ll actually pull me in; until he steps back with my cigarettes in his hand.
“Could we have a cigarette again?” he asks, his voice small, pathetic, guilty. He said no. I can feel insecurity consume me and I feel embarrassed. I haven’t felt embarrassed since my dad told me to get married. No one but my father has ever embarrassed me and I can feel my jaw hang in disbelief. He said no.
“Yeah,” I spit out at him, taking my pack before leaving him standing there as I ascend to my room. Too lost in thought to pay attention to where I’m stepping, I’m hitting every amplified creak on the stairs. How could he have said no? He fought me, having never been in a fight with muscles unused for years, liked me enough to fight me. Trusted me enough to fight me. We’ve known each other less than 12 hours and he’s already moved in. As I spitefully think, “You didn’t deserve to get your apartment blown up,” there he is, in my doorway, looking as small as I feel. The cigarette between my fingers bounces as he takes his seat so close to me, our thighs and shoulders press against each other. I wish I could read him. I wish I knew what he wanted. Confidence returns when I realize I can still find out.
“Where’s my cigarette?” he asks. The cigarette in my hand travels, placed in his mouth. He’s let me twice now.
“I want to share one with you,” I tell him as I light it, placing a hand on his thigh. I study as he inhales, following the smoke as he exhales. I see him turn red as I take the cigarette back, turning to stare ahead. He readjusts slightly yet doesn’t take my hand off him. I want to try again; I want him to let go, to just lean in. Slide. We both want the same thing, the only issue being he’s too scared to actually have what he wants. I don’t mean the most recent coffee maker or the watch that says what day it is. I mean wanting to be wanted. Being loved. I don’t know if he even remembers the last time someone said they loved him. I don’t know if he’d let anyone in if they asked him. He let me in. And I didn’t even need to ask.
“What are you thinking?” He asks me and I can feel him looking.
“When was the last time you shared a bed with someone?” I ask him, turning to meet eyes that look away instantly.
“I,” he pauses, eyes glued to my elbow, “I can’t remember,” he confesses. I believe him.
“You don’t deserve to be alone,” I inform him. He really doesn’t. He’s just lost, in need of guidance; navigation. He doesn’t need to be alone anymore. There’s something about him that has me caring enough to want to be that crucial dismantling in his life, even if I have to drag him kicking and screaming. The change that can give him life.
As I fall to the bed, I grab his arm and pull him to lay next to me, our sides overlapping. I take a drag and note the way his breaths are shorter as I roll on my side and put my hand over his chest. I want to feel what hauls him through existence, what pumps his blood, what he’s left dormant for years. I want to feel it beat in my hands. I reach up and hold the cigarette as he inhales. When he pulls away, I bring it to myself to drag. I exhale into his neck as I turn to burrow my face in him.
“You smell like shit,” I speak against him. He doesn’t laugh but I hear him smiling. Smiling myself, I lean into him, my lips against his sternocleidomastoid. I cannot help but kiss his skin, my hand on his chest pressing down as I move across him, holding him down. I haven’t heard him breathe in a few seconds.
“What are you doing?” He asks, barely audible. I know he’s wanted this, he’s worn it on his face since we talked about how oxygen gets you high. “You really are an affectionate drunk,” he sighs and I can’t help but feel my blood drain.
“Can we try something?” I struggle to ask. No one has ever made me as sick as he does. I don’t even know where he went to school. Not that that’s ever mattered before. It probably matters to him.
“Exhale into my mouth,” I direct him, sitting up to look at him as I bring the cigarette to his lips. He holds my gaze as he inhales, nearly finishing the cigarette’s remains in one pull. I take it from him and close my eyes, holding still. I feel him move, getting closer, as I struggle to keep my eyes closed. I breathe in as he blows smoke into my lungs, wheezing slightly. His palm comes up to hold my face and I couldn’t keep my eyes closed any longer. His lips graze mine in our exchange as I catch a barely audible moan from him. I have never gotten harder any faster than from hearing him.
“Your turn,” I say, propping myself over him. I take the last drag, putting the cigarette in the ashtray by my bed while holding the smoke in my lungs. I don’t have it in me to hesitate as I lean down and connect our lips. I exhale into him; he breathes in new purpose. I don’t kiss him, and he doesn’t kiss me. I eventually pull away, my face returning to the crook of his neck. I’m fighting the urge to move when I feel him squirm timidly next to me.
“Tyler?” He whines, I smile against his neck.
“Yes?” I ask him? I want to tease him.
“Could you…” He trails off, his hand fidgeting.
“Talk to me,” I sigh, draping my leg over his, rocking against him. His breaths are short again and I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack. He doesn’t think he’s special while he’s feeling the same thing I am. He doesn’t think he’s much but he is all I’ve ever wanted.I place a hand on his inner thigh, eliciting aa nearly inaudible curse and a whine from him.
“Please,” he breathes out, moving against me.
“What is it?” I ask him, dragging my teeth across his neck, smile plastered to my face. Of course I know what he wants.
“Touch me. Please,” he begs, and I could not wait any longer. I reach to palm him through his pants as he bucks against my hand, chasing friction. I’m undoing his belt as I listen to him whimper, feeling him pull me up to him. The moment I touch him, his head falls back with a gasp that leaves me spinning. I hold his face while I jerk him off, listening to us groan in unison, forever the cacophony of two. I want to hear every sound he could possibly make.
“Why didn’t you kiss me? In the kitchen,” I ask him, taking my hand off him. He squirms in discomfort. I beam. I have to know.
“Please,” he is begging me, pulling my hand down to touch him again. How could someone who wanted this so much say no?
“Why didn’t you kiss me?” I ask again, holding eye contact. He winces.
“I was scared,” he breathes out. “I don’t think someone like you should stoop as low as me. I’ve never done this before. I really like you, Tyler, I think you’re so bright and intelligent. I find you hilarious, it would be impossible not to find you charismatic. I think you’re so beautiful. I really do, please. Please touch me,” he speaks a mile a minute. I can’t help but sigh when he says my name. I groan as I finally lean to kiss him. He gnaws on my lips like he’s starving, kissing me with an urgency I can barely keep up with. He’s reaching for my pants as I’m writhing in attempt to remove them. I remove his as he licks my teeth. I sigh the moment he touches me, burning. I keep opening my eyes to see him and I want to moan every time. His eyebrows furrowed, hair unkempt, his hand holding me against himself.
“I think you’re so pretty,” I cry into his mouth. I mean it, I really do. I think he’s beautiful: his dark hair and tired eyes, his stubble and wrinkled shirt, his humor and wit. I think he could really be the answer I need.
“Your cheeks are all red. Is this for me?” I mock. “How sweet.”
He doesn’t say anything, but he does adjust his hand in a way that brings me to collapse on myself, sobbing against his lips. He cries back against mine.
“You look so beautiful like this,” I say parting, sitting up. I realize he still has his shirt on, we both do, so I straighten out his collar just to see him put together before taken apart. My hands against his neck move down to unbutton his shirt as I study his face. His knit eyebrows, his blown pupils, flushed cheeks and suspended jaw. I wonder if he's looking at me or looking towards me. For me. I just don’t want him to take his eyes off me. I take his shirt off and sit him up to take off his undershirt. His hands come to tear my jacket off, suddenly I’m helping him take off my shirt. There we sat, staring at each other’s contrasting bodies until ny patience eroded.
I crawl over him, us both falling, our chests pressed against each other. His hand finds me as mine finds him as we jerk each other off, my mouth finding his again. He claims he’s never been with another man but he performs like that’s the biggest lie he’s ever told. The twist of his hand, his grip around me, it’s as if we’ve done this before; as if he knows what makes me unravel. Maybe I’m just too interested in him. Maybe I just want to know everything about him. Maybe I want him to know everything about me.
“T-Tyler I’m… I can’t do this much longer,” he whines, turning his head and breathing hard into my ear.
“Are you going to come? Are you gonna come for me? I want to see you fall apart. I want you to break. I want you to feel me in your marrow.” I need you to want me, I want to tell him as he’s cursing against me, his hand speeding up. Until it’s taken off me, leaving me shaking and sobbing.
“Please… please put your hand back on me please, please, please,” I adjure. I’m the one I want him to pray to and here I am begging him, trembling and losing track of the pace of my hand on him.
“I love how you sound when you whine,” he growls at me and I wonder how the dynamic changed. He’s been unpredictable to read since the start yet he’s shredded my brain.
“I want you to come from me. For me. I want you to tell me who’s making you feel this good,” he’s demanding from me and I feel shattered.
“It’s you it’s you please, please let me come please touch me please, please,” I’m begging him until he touches me and we lose ourselves. I drink every sound he makes as I feel him spill against me, lost in our own orgasms. As we catch our breaths, I take his hand off me, licking his fingers clean. He flinches
I settle down on him, draping my arm across his torso, bringing my leg over his again. We are both drenched in sweat, our skin in a tacky mingle. I rest my head on his chest as he runs a hand through my hair. It could put me to sleep how he’s scratching my head. I close my eyes, humming. I have to know.
“Did you mean it? When you said you liked me?” I ask once our breathing has returned to normal. I just want to hear him say it. I know he does. I just want to hear him say it again.
“Yes, I like you Tyler. I really like you,” he tells me. I don’t look up at him but I know he’s smiling
“I really like you too,” I say. I hope he’s gleaming. I want him to feel special, to know there’s more to his life. I want him to know that I can help him, that I like him enough to let him in. That I like him enough to maybe even love him. If he’ll let me.
“I would hope so,” he tells me, making me laugh again. His fingernails dig deeper into my scalp, weighing my eyes down. I want to stay up and make sure he sleeps, but I can’t keep myself from dozing off.
As my eyes start to open, I turn my head. Waking up, I’m met with him facing me, jaw slack and drooling, arm limp across me. I feel giddy, accomplished. He met up with me at the bar, he came home with me, he moved in, he kissed me. He kissed me. Now here he is, asleep by my side, lightly snoring. I run a hand through his hair and he stirs. I hold still until he settles closer to me pulling me in, not moving until he’s settled down. I go back to touching his hair and smile to myself. He’s here.